


A Chance Meeting With Myself

by NortheasternWind



Series: Interventions [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Tales of Berseria
Genre: Aziraphale Is Soft, Friendship, Gen, God: you will be gay uncles and you will like it, M/M, Post-Canon, Self-Acceptance, aziraphale just wants crowley to be happy with who he is :(, loudly projecting your feelings onto strangers, talking about your feelings by talking about strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-06-03 02:14:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19454239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NortheasternWind/pseuds/NortheasternWind
Summary: A young demon with an inexplicable interest in cooking finds their way into Aziraphale's bookshop one day, and poor Aziraphale is caught between the suspicion he should feel and his natural inclination to see Crowley everywhere he isn't.Or: Aziraphale is used to stepping into strangers' lives, helping out a little, and then leaving. It's just... usually not demons.





	1. Chapter 1

She comes on a weekday, when most people her age are in class.

Well, she could be a college student, Aziraphale reasons. She looks old enough, and their schedules tend to be strange and difficult to predict. It doesn’t matter. He knows she’s not a college student, or a student of any kind.

She’s a demon.

Aziraphale can’t help staring as she lets the door close behind her and casts an idle gaze about. It’s been some time since the Apocalypse, and he’d been so certain that Hell would leave them alone— but here is a demon, in his shop, looking around as though she’s never been in a bookshop before.

...Well, she probably hasn’t. But still.

“Can I help you?” he asks sharply, once he regains control of his senses.

Rather to his bafflement, the demon doesn’t even look at him. “Just looking,” she says, and wanders further into the shop.

Well!

...Aziraphale had been about to think to himself that he’s never been so ignored in all his life, but that is such a substantial lie that he scolds himself internally.

Anyway.

Allowing a demon to peruse his treasures unsupervised is out of the question, so Aziraphale eases himself out from behind the counter and follows. He’s not entirely certain how to approach the situation: demons are, on the whole, only too happy to start a fight, so perhaps the fact that she hasn’t attacked is a good sign. Crowley is the cleverest of them all, and if he wanted to… ah, get the drop on someone, this is not how he would go about it. But Aziraphale doesn’t trust her, and will not leave this world so soon after his part in saving it, so he loiters nearby and watches carefully.

She does appear to be looking. Her eyes are certainly sliding over each of Aziraphale’s books in turn, and not surreptitiously stealing glances back at him. She’s not finding anything, which is also a relief, but her slow progress across the shelves is not helping Aziraphale’s nerves any.

What in the world does she want?

He tries not to start when she looks up at him, though with no more urgency than she’s done anything else.

“Do you have any cookbooks?”

Aziraphale blinks.

“Cookbooks?” he says stupidly. “Why— yes, I—”

_Cookbooks?_

“I— can you read any other languages? Other than English, I mean.”

“No.”

Aziraphale blinks again. “Oh. Well.”

A demon looking for cookbooks. Many, many thoughts cross Aziraphale’s mind in the time it takes him to move on to his next sentence:

First, that she knows what a cookbook is, most likely. Aziraphale hadn’t, at first, though he’d learned perfectly fine without Crowley’s help. He imagines an angel like Gabriel would describe it more like... a record of ways to arrange consumable matter.

Second, that she wants one. Demons don’t generally have much use for cookbooks. She could be giving it away, but that would make it a… a present, a gift, and Aziraphale has only ever met one demon who would go out of his way to make a gift for another.

(Not that he’s met many demons at all, mind you. But he’s fairly confident in this assessment.)

Third, if she doesn’t want to give it away (which she might), then she must instead intend to use it.

For cooking.

Crowley… Well, sometimes Aziraphale rather thinks that Crowley is only interested in food when in Aziraphale’s presence, and isn’t that something to think about. But even so, the thought of a demon being interested in cooking still makes him think of Crowley, and once he has that thought it really isn’t possible for Aziraphale to deny her.

It may be a trap, but Aziraphale will choose to hope, this time.

“Just a moment,” he says, and hastily retreats to the back room.

He does have cookbooks in English, but none that he is willing to part with. Instead, he grabs a copy of The Sound of Music and performs a minor miracle on it.

 _Lüchow’s_. Ah, he remembers that one.

He returns to the front room to find the demon woman right where he left her, gaze returned to the books but otherwise the picture of patience.

“Here’s something! I believe this particular restaurant has been closed for quite some time, but I’m afraid my stocks are rather disorganized at the moment, you see.”

“No,” the demon says to his surprise, taking the book from him and flipping through it. “This is perfect. How much?”

She pays, and leaves, and Aziraphale can do nothing but stare after her and hope privately that he’s done the right thing.

* * *

(He doesn’t tell Crowley. He should, perhaps, just in case, but if he’s going to hope then he may as well do the whole kit and caboodle as they say, and if Crowley finds out he might do something…

Something. Who knows.)

* * *

Three days later, she’s back.

Aziraphale is shooing out another customer with the power of bad manners and angelic suggestion when she enters, with exactly the same nonchalance as her first visit. She makes her way over to where she last left off, and does not speak until they are alone in the shop.

“Do you need a minute?”

In addition to everything else, the demon is being oddly courteous. The fragile little hope in Aziraphale’s chest swells, just a bit.

“No, not at all,” he says, approaching her. “I don’t know why people insist on buying my first editions, honestly, they’re not for sale.”

The demon looks up with something like curiosity on her face. Aziraphale recalls with a pang the rarity of curiosity in angels, and why exactly that is.

“If they’re not for sale, then why are they on display?”

“It’s the zoning on this building, you see.” Aziraphale sighs. “Commercial, I’m afraid. So I have to at least pretend to be a bookshop once in a while.”

The demon frowns. “You sold me a book the other day.”

“I do have some books I’m willing to part with, though not many.” He smiles, though he gets the feeling the expression is less friendly and more awkward. This is information that most demons can’t use against him, but sharing it still makes him uncomfortable. “You’re welcome to read anything you like, dear, but er…”

“No buying, huh.”

“No buying.”

She doesn’t seem terribly upset about it.

“I keep the cookbooks over here, if you’re still interested,” he adds.

“Oh, so you do keep them organized.”

“I do,” Aziraphale admits, flustered. “If you need pen and paper to write anything down I can bring it to you. There’s a desk in the back.”

The demon smiles. “Thanks.”

She makes her way to the cookbooks, and Aziraphale fetches her pen and paper, and they spend the rest of her visit in companionable silence. Or, she does, at any rate. Aziraphale can’t quite shake his own caution: she may seem benign, but he has no explanation for her strange behavior and things that cannot be understood are frightening.

But, then, is that not the root of so much evil in this world? And, the tiny part of him that still believes in the Almighty’s goodness whispers, isn’t it nice sometimes, to be reminded that you cannot understand everything?

She thanks him when she leaves, completely without incident, and Aziraphale continues to wonder.

* * *

They settle into a comfortable routine. Every few days the demon will come around, browse the cookbooks, select one and sit down to copy recipes into a little notebook she begins bringing with her. By now Aziraphale has realized that she hasn’t performed a single miracle— not where he can see, at least.

Does she know he’s an angel? Can she not tell? Why? What a mystery!

“How do you like your cocoa, dear?” he asks on her fourth visit. “I’m just going upstairs for a mug. I can bring you tea, if you prefer.”

“Cocoa is fine,” she says absently. “You can make it with water if you don’t have milk, it’s alright.”

“Right.”

Aziraphale brings her cocoa with milk anyway, of course, because he’s no heathen. She takes it with a sip and a smile, and murmured thanks, and Aziraphale catches a glimpse of her notes over her shoulder.

“Ah, never had turmeric?” There’s a little question mark next to the ingredient in her notebook.

“Nope. Never heard of it.”

“It’s excellent in curry,” Aziraphale tells her, with perhaps more relish than is strictly necessary. “You can find it in a shop just down the street.”

She smiles again, wider than Aziraphale has ever seen her. “I’ll take that under advisement. Thanks.”

Aziraphale is delighted to introduce her to new recipes and spices as their acquaintance continues. Crowley’s interest means more than the demon perhaps knows, but there’s still something so nice about having a… friend who truly shares his enthusiasm.

But Aziraphale is getting ahead of himself. He shouldn’t be calling them friends yet, not when he doesn’t even know her name.

In any case, the young (for she must be young, not to recognize him on sight) demon seems perfectly content to let him ramble on and on about various delicacies, restaurants in the area, foods he’s tried in other countries and other such things. It isn’t until week three of what he privately refers to as The Mini Arrangement that he realizes why she asks the questions she does, why she asks what things taste like and what they go well with, and why she isn’t terribly picky about how he makes her cocoa despite studying recipes with an impressive attention to detail.

Because one day, Aziraphale accidentally puts salt in their cocoa, and not sugar.

He sputters in the front of the shop, caught off-guard, and looks up to warn his guest. But she has already taken a sip: she always does, the moment he hands it to her, and then smiles and tells him it’s delicious.

The poor dear has no sense of taste.

Aziraphale’s head spins. Humans that cannot enjoy food are not unheard of, but for a demon to lack a sense of taste… Was it taken from her when she Fell?

Something in him twists. She is a young demon. Was it taken from her because of him? His reputation? Has he accidentally ensured that the pleasures of taste are forbidden from beings ethereal and occult both, for fear of tempting them to rebellion?

It’s not any of his business, really. It’s not even actually a problem. Taste is only one aspect of life, one way to enjoy the world, and there is plenty left to enjoy without it, like good books or friends. The problem, of course, is Aziraphale: Aziraphale loves food, loves the texture and the taste, and to learn so abruptly that he cannot share such a simple joy with someone who reminds him so much of…

Oh, he always did get a little foolish when it came to food, didn’t he?

He still doesn’t know for certain that she’s not an enemy, and either way he isn’t certain how he would go about fixing such a thing. But the mysteries are piling up, and Aziraphale does love a good mystery.

When she leaves that day, Aziraphale calls Crowley.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Aziraphale thinks he can see Crowley in her, that's nothing compared to what Crowley sees.

Crowley’s visit goes entirely as Aziraphale predicted it would, which is to say that he takes one step inside the bookshop and immediately becomes a furious tangle of nervous energy demanding to know who The Other Demon That’s Been In Here is and how long they’ve been coming and why didn’t Aziraphale tell him he’s in danger, and then gets enormously drunk while Aziraphale attempts to defend himself and explain the situation.

He’s not entirely certain Crowley believes him— and why would he, Crowley knows far more demons than Aziraphale— but there is only one way these conversations ever end, so he isn’t worried about securing Crowley’s assistance despite all his grumbling.

And thus, the very day after Aziraphale’s discovery, the young demon returns to his bookshop and Aziraphale summons Crowley as planned.

(Via phonecall. They’d had quite some fun coming up with code phrases so as not to alarm her. She is not fooled, because they’re not very good at being discreet, our heroes, but fortunately she chalks it up to her host being just a little strange.)

The Bentley screams into view in record time, and Crowley just about kicks the door open on his way in, startling both Aziraphale and the demon woman. She looks up sharply at the noise, and Aziraphale doesn’t have time to reassure her before Crowley calls out:

“Angel, I’m home!”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” Aziraphale murmurs under his breath, blushing. “Sorry, dear, old friend, one moment.”

He hurries to the front of the shop as Crowley swans his way inside, all faux ease and coiled anxiety. Crowley is truly worried, Aziraphale thinks with an unnecessary warmth: he has always set Aziraphale first and foremost in his concerns.

“Crowley,” he greets, just as gleefully as usual. There is simply no stopping the happiness that swells in his chest whenever Crowley appears at the door.

“Angel,” Crowley greets, with an ease that Aziraphale can tell is entirely false. “Young lady.”

“I’m gay.”

Crowley half-laughs, half-sputters, and at once loses any semblance of Collected Cool he had somehow mustered. “Well, you’re in good company then. Don’t let me bother you.”

“Yep,” she says simply, and does not answer again. She hasn’t looked up from her work this entire time.

Crowley saunters, in his way, over to a bookshelf not far from where the young demon is sitting, and pulls out a book at random. He’s always careful to do so without damaging the spines, even when there are headbands, but after owning this bookshop for something like 200 years Aziraphale can tell when he’s simply looking for an excuse. Presumably to stand closer to their guest, in this case.

“She’s not a demon,” Crowley says to Aziraphale, in a long-dead language that perhaps only they still know. He smirks, just a little. “Excellent fashion sense, though.”

Aziraphale freezes, caught so far from his guard that he forgets to do all those little human things like shifting his weight or breathing. “She’s not? She certainly feels like a demon.” In fact, she exudes such a blatantly demonic aura that Aziraphale has been careful not to actually touch her.

“Yeah, she’s not a demon. She’s a human with an incredibly powerful curse.”

Something in Aziraphale lifts, despite his sorrow for the poor girl. Not a demon. Cursed. Aziraphale cannot make a demon not-a-demon (something he knows because he has tried, very much to his shame, not to mention thought about it for something like two thousand years), but he can lift a curse.

“Why— that’s excellent news! We can simply lift her curse.”

Crowley grimaces. “Yeah, I don’t think— you know, angel, a curse that powerful isn’t normal. It might have changed her, it might be tied to her life, or her soul, or any other number of terrible demonic conditions.”

That is… certainly a concern. Its roots must go deep indeed if Aziraphale, an angel, couldn’t tell the difference between her curse and a demon’s nature.

“You could tell she was human,” Aziraphale points out. “Can you find out what her curse is?”

Crowley’s grimace deepens, producing a truly impressive number of wrinkles on his face, and he groans. “Yeah, I can do it. Get upstairs, best if she doesn’t think you have anything to do with this.”

Oh dear, Aziraphale thinks, then puts on his brightest smile and addresses the young woman:

“I’m going upstairs for some cocoa, dear, would you like some?”

“Sure, thanks,” the young not-a-demon answers, ever focused on her recipes.

He exchanges glances with Crowley, and retreats upstairs. Crowley treasures humans, perhaps more than Aziraphale does. Surely she’ll be fine.

* * *

Crowley pretends to flip idly through the pages of his stolen book while Aziraphale gives them some room, and considers how best to do this. He can’t blame the angel for believing that she’s actually a genuine demon: most curses feel more like a disease than anything else, but hers is actively producing so much demonic energy that Crowley is actually incredibly annoyed Aziraphale waited this long to ask for his help. If he really thought she was a demon, he must have thought she was a powerful one, and in that case why the devil would he let her stay?

(The answer, of course, is food. And if Crowley allows himself to hope, perhaps some ill-advised projection as well.)

Aziraphale vanishes into the flat above the bookshop, and Crowley snaps his book shut. He can handle one human, surely.

“What do you want,” the woman asks flatly, not looking up at him. She’s much better at pretending not to care than Crowley is, he thinks, which must be a human thing.

“Who, me?” Crowley asks innocently, sauntering closer. Hm, it’s not actually tied to her soul, which is probably a good thing… “Who said I want anything?”

“This conversation could go a lot faster if you just admit it, you know.”

“I mean it’s not exactly a conversation thing, you know,” Crowley says. Is she aware she’s cursed? ...Well, she must be, if she can’t taste anything. But does she know why? “It’s more like a, I’m gonna stand here and pretend I’m not doing anything funny thing. Please don’t get up and move by the way.”

The woman actually does look at Crowley then, with an expression that says quite clearly what she thinks of him, and scoots her chair further away.

“Yeah that’s fair honestly. Hey, quick question,” Crowley goes on. “If you had to choose between your sense of taste and your left arm, which would you prefer?”

There is no answer for a long, long moment. Now that he’s this close, Crowley can untangle her curse from her nature and examine it: it’s a poison of the soul, something foreign that has taken her utterly human emotions and turned them into demonic energy.

Crowley thanks anyone who is listening that he thought to send Aziraphale away. The curse isn’t just stealing her sense of taste. It’s also stealing nourishment— not only is food tasteless, but no matter how much she eats she will always be hungry.

Always. It would break the angel’s heart.

Dear Aziraphale; he hadn’t even noticed the woman’s gloves. But Crowley knows an attempt to hide when he sees one.

“...Are you a mal’ak?” the woman— girl, really— asks, and oho, there’s a word Crowley didn’t expect.

“You mean like, generic mal’ak, or mal’akim led by the Archangel Raphael mal’ak, or— generic mal’ak, then,” he deduces from her baffled expression. “In that case, no, I am not a mal’ak, though I used to be.”

She frowns. “How do you _used to be_ a mal’ak?”

“What do you mean, _how do you used to be a mal’ak?_ Here, I’ll prove it to you.”

And for the first time in a long, long while, Crowley reaches up and removes his glasses in the presence of someone other than Aziraphale. The girl looks into his eyes, and Crowley sees the gears turning in her head.

She believes him. He can feel it.

“You’re like me.”

Caught wrong-footed, Crowley sputters again. “Well, not exactly, but. Sort of. Actually, yeah, in a way. I used to be something, and things happened, and now I’m something else.”

“Yeah.”

Suddenly Crowley wishes he hadn’t taken his glasses off so soon. “Listen,” he goes on hastily, “it doesn’t matter. Point is you’re in a bad way and I can fix it, if you want. Your call.”

The tension drops out of the girl’s shoulders. She turns her gaze to her notes, and the recipes she had been copying out of Aziraphale’s beloved books before Crowley interrupted her. He shouldn’t, but Crowley tentatively reaches out with his demonic senses to try and discern what she’s thinking.

She’s not tempted, exactly. She’s more… contemplative.

“I wish I could go back,” she says at length.

Crowley considers. The part of him that rejected, still rejects Aziraphale’s attempts at forgiveness stirs. “That’s not what I offered.”

“I know.”

Ah.

Crowley swallows, feeling rather as though his throat is constricting upon itself.

“I get the feeling,” he admits. “But you’re not like me, you know? You— you’re not actually any different, physically speaking, you’ve just got some sort of— some sort of parasite attached to you, that makes your taste buds useless and makes you constantly hungry and all that rubbish. A whale is still a whale even if it’s got a tapeworm, isn’t it?”

She doesn’t look up at him. Crowley can feel how difficult it is for the poor girl to answer. “...I’ve done things.”

His heart bleeds. Crowley has always been careful not to do anything he cannot justify, either to Hell or to Aziraphale, but he knows in his heart that his actions have still made the world a crueler place. He calls up that guilt again, trying to bring himself just a little closer to her.

“You’re not doing anything now though,” he points out. “You could do different things, if you want. Won’t change the past, but then having a tapeworm for an arm didn’t change the past either, did it?”

The girl doesn’t answer. She is not tempted. She wants, oh yes, but Crowley knows what temptation looks like, and this is not it. What she wants is to believe that she is worthy of enjoying life, of being called human, and it’s looking increasingly unlikely that Crowley will be able to give her that in the space of one conversation.

(Crowley wants to think that she is too kind a person, so kind that it prevents her from believing that she deserves a life free of hunger. But he has already decided to see himself in her and he can’t unsee it, and so thoughts like that must be ruthlessly smothered until the next time he realizes he’s okay with being what he is.)

“I’ll think about it,” she says finally.

“It’s a lot to think about,” Crowley admits. “Just— you don’t have to be hungry, you know.”

“Yeah,” she says, rather unconvincingly.

Crowley swallows again. When he speaks, it’s just the littlest bit more difficult: “The angel— mal’ak— whatever— and I go way back. He’s, uh, trustworthy.”

The girl gives him a strange look. “You realize I know him better than I know you, right?”

Crowley hits himself in the head. He had completely forgotten.

“Great, well, you believe me then. Listen, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s got a bit of a thing about food and— you know, he’s gotten a lot better about things recently, and I’m proud of him, but I can’t guarantee he won’t be weird about it if he knows, so you might want to consider whether or not you want to tell him.”

The girl simply lifts an eyebrow at him. “Why should I tell him when he’s going to make you do it for me? He’s clearly got you wrapped around his finger.”

Crowley makes several completely unintelligible noises. The girl looks altogether too pleased with herself.

“Thanks for the warning. But I can handle myself, so don’t bother getting him all mad at you for hiding.”

“Right,” Crowley mutters. Somehow he’s completely lost control of this conversation. “Well. Right! Great talk! Be seeing you, sweetheart. Can I call you sweetheart?”

“No.”

“Fair enough. Hate saying sweetheart anyway.” Crowley stands up straight, so Aziraphale’s poor bookshelf doesn’t have to support his weight anymore. “Really think about it, alright? We’re not going anywhere, probably, barring some unforeseen catastrophe or deciding we need a change of scenery or something— actually, maybe I should just give you my number—”

She looks halfway between annoyed and amused. “I’ll think about it. Promise.”

Crowley conjures up a scrap of paper with his number on it, and flicks it onto her notebook. Better than putting his foot in his mouth, again.

“I like you,” he says lamely. “Don’t die.”

And then he flees upstairs to fetch Aziraphale, too high-strung to look back and try to discern if his words have reached her. By the time he returns with Aziraphale brandishing twin mugs of cocoa, the girl is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the grand tradition of twoshots, I have decided to split the second chapter into two different chapters. Next time: Crowley and Aziraphale Discuss Their Emotions, and some other stuff happens ehehehe.
> 
> Also I did actually write out the phone call and Crowley's visit, which I might tack on as a bonus chapter. Or maybe I'll change my mind and edit it into this chapter later. I'm just not that great with scene transitions, so I felt self-conscious about just being like THE NEXT DAY...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If the world says it's a mistake to love you, I'll fight the whole world. I don't care how much pain you feel.

Having a demon (not-a-demon, but she really had been so obviously demonic that Aziraphale hadn’t thought he needed to look closer) walk into his bookshop had been rather startling, but that was nothing compared to having another angel enter.

Upon reentering the bookshop proper he had been rather put out to learn that Crowley’s brilliant plan to learn the nature of his dear visitor’s curse had been to simply ask her. The demon didn’t even have the decency to look properly abashed at his silliness.

“Listen, when have we ever been good at subtlety?”

“I am perfectly capable of being subtle!” Aziraphale protested, earning him a dubious look.

It was only after noticing Crowley’s Lying By Omission expression and prying just a little that he had admitted the true horror of the girl’s curse. Lack of taste was awful enough, in his opinion; the thought that there existed a human in this world who had to force herself to eat tasteless food, and then not even gain the satisfaction of a full stomach…

It didn’t bear thinking about. And still she hesitated, out of some misplaced sense of justice. It reminds him, just a little, of a certain demon’s aversion to being called what he is— nice, kind, good. Aziraphale has never had to fight himself to believe that he deserves to be happy, that he is at heart a good person, and this new evidence of just how lucky he is for that has consumed his mind for the better part of a week now.

As a result, he doesn’t spot his angelic visitor until they’re already in the door. This time though the surprise is mutual: Aziraphale starts and looks up at the same moment his guest does, mouth falling open when he sees that the “angel” in question is less than five feet tall, with wide green eyes speaking of youth and inexperience and carrying what looks like a bagged box of take-out.

A child.

“Oh!” the angel-child says. “Good morning!”

“Er,” Aziraphale greets stupidly. Lesson well-learned, he takes a moment to examine his visitor more closely. The… child… is definitely supernatural in nature, and not merely blessed to resemble an angel, but there is still something strange about him. Demons had Heaven torn out from within them, and replaced it with all manner of rot and flame. But the being standing in Aziraphale’s bookshop bears neither a piece of Heaven nor a Hellish scab where one used to be.

He has never been to Heaven at all.

“Ah,” Aziraphale says at last, regaining his wits. “Good morning.”

The child brightens, and happily makes his way over to the desk. Aziraphale probably shouldn’t let him, but the young angel looks so non-threatening that Aziraphale isn’t certain he could defend himself if he tried.

(He could, of course. He’d nearly killed Adam, after all. But Aziraphale tries to be a better person nowadays.)

“Are you Mr. Fell?” the child asks. “The owner of this shop?”

“I certainly am,” Aziraphale answers, still unsure but forcing a measure of cheer into his voice anyway. Angels being polite means rather less than demons being polite.

The child’s smile widens, and he places the bagged take-out box on the desk before Aziraphale. “This is for you! It’s thanks.”

“Thanks for what?” Aziraphale asks, bewildered— but reaching out to leaf through the bag as he does so.

He comes away with a note, written in the familiar hand of the not-a-demon from before. Aziraphale feels the tension and the hard lines drain out of his expression, and sees the angel-child beam out of the corner of his eye as he reads:

_This quiche was my sister’s signature recipe. I have no idea if it tastes the same, but I’ve got the texture just about down, and my friends all enjoy it well enough— even the ones who hate spinach._

_I’m still thinking about it. There’s a lot to give up first._

_But thanks. Enjoy._

Aziraphale’s time-softened heart swells with emotion. The books in his shop all have some manner of sentimental value: many were gifts from the authors themselves, the closest thing to an heirloom an angel can possess.

But some humans don’t have heirlooms. Some humans have only memories, and the love, gratitude and longing baked into this quiche is so powerful that Aziraphale can smell it even without opening the box.

He takes a long, steadying breath. Maybe blinks back a couple unnecessary tears.

_There’s a lot to give up first._

“Young man,” he says suddenly. “Er, sorry— Can I call you young man?”

“Sure! What is it?”

“Have you been discorporated?”

The boy blinks, and then blinks again. “Dis… cor…”

Oh, he’s a smart one, Aziraphale thinks, watching the gears turn in the boy’s eyes. But Aziraphale puts the pieces together for him:

“Discorporated, dear,” he says gently. “Your physical body. What happened to it? Or have you never had one?”

Understanding dawns in the boy’s eyes. “You mean my vessel! I, uh… I don’t really have one. There’s not really anyone here that…”

He wilts a little, and at once much is made clear to Aziraphale. The poor boy has no way of obtaining a vessel alone and no way of making himself known to humans without it— and if Aziraphale lifts the young woman’s curse, she won’t be able to see him either.

Oh, how cruel.

He doesn’t want to make promises he might not be able to keep, but Aziraphale has never stopped himself from sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong. “Well, you brought me this. You can hold physical objects?”

The boy’s expression returns to what Aziraphale is beginning to suspect is its usual state of cheer. “Yup! No one can see anything I’m holding, though.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Perfect. Well, do you enjoy reading? I’m actually not looking to sell any of my books, you see, and customers certainly can’t ask to buy books that are invisible to them.”

The young woman must have explained the bookshop’s predicament to the boy, because instead of looking confused he lights up with joy. “Can I?!”

“You’ll have to put them back where you found them before you leave, and do be careful while handling them. No food, please.”

“I’ll be careful!” the boy vows. “I promise! Thank you, Mr. Fell!”

He spins on his feet and spends a few moments admiring the shelves with wide eyes, in awe of the bounty that has just been opened to him. Aziraphale doesn’t much like children in his shop, but he can’t bring himself to regret making this one exception.

As the boy wanders further in he considers calling Crowley, but decides against it. If sensing a demon had nearly given him conniptions, walking in to find an actual angel present would surely discorporate him on the spot. Aziraphale can give the boy an hour or two of peace.

* * *

“Maybe that’s what she meant by mal’ak,” Crowley muses later, after a quick glass of wine. “How old d’you think he was?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Aziraphale says, refilling his glass. “I didn’t ask, and it’s rather difficult to tell even with mortals.” Though easier after watching Warlock grow. He passes the bottle back to Crowley, who refills his own glass.

“New angels! Or new angel-stock, anyway. Wonder if it was something we did. You know, on Saturday.” Crowley has a great number of names for the thwarted Apocalypse, but Saturday is his favorite. “Our own side and all that. Maybe the Almighty is throwing us a bone.”

(Crowley has more faith and love for the Almighty than he pretends, and it infuriates the poor demon. Aziraphale hadn’t really understood why until Crowley’s tale of his trial in Heaven, and how much it hurt.)

“I wouldn’t put it past Her,” Aziraphale says vaguely, repeating the same platitude he’d expressed that night on the bench. He’s not finished doubting. He hasn’t doubted enough, these past millenia. “Quite a mess the poor boy has inherited, though. I do hope it wasn’t actually anything we did, or I might have to apologize.”

“Then you’d have to apologize to every kid born since the apocalypse, angel. Look, this is a good thing: the more occult/ethereal-type-folks humanity’s got on their side, the better off they’ll be.”

“I know it’s a good thing! Such a sweet boy couldn’t possibly be a bad thing.” Aziraphale takes a healthy swig from his drink. “I just wish the situation with that infernal curse weren’t so complicated. He must know…”

The burden of knowing that his… friend? Sister? Mother, in the only way that matters? suffers so terribly for his sake is one he is too young to bear, no matter his actual age. The thought wraps its icy fingers around Aziraphale’s heart and doesn’t let go, smelling weakness there, waiting for Aziraphale to let his thoughts drift too far.

Crowley lets his arm drop, the wine sloshing about dangerously in his glass. He’d removed his sunglasses the moment he’d seen the store was empty, and Aziraphale can barely stand to look at the softness in his eyes now.

“Some things are worth it, angel.”

Aziraphale’s gaze snaps up to meet his. “They don’t have to suffer,” he says sternly, “any more than the world had to end. We can find him a body.”

“Where? We can’t just pop into Heaven and ask nicely, and I don’t think he’d like one from Hell much.”

Aziraphale could, actually, pop into Heaven and ask (maybe not nicely. They’ll see), but admitting this to Crowley would be a very good way of ensuring the poor demon never slept or let him out of his sight again. Which wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, honestly, except the poor dear’s plants would all die.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says. “We can ask young miss Device, or see if Adam knows anything.”

“We are not bugging an eleven-year-old for help every time we find an earthbound angel without a body.”

“He can already interact with physical objects,” Aziraphale goes on, ignoring him. “We just need a way to make him visible. Then we can lift the young lady’s curse whenever we want.”

Crowley’s gaze sharpens dangerously. “It’s not that simple, angel.”

“Why not? We can use the boy,” he continues, before Crowley can answer him. “We don’t know their relationship, but she sent him as a message— they must be close. Even if she finds comfort in her own pain, surely she can be convinced to set it aside in order to ease his.”

Something twitches in Crowley’s jaw, and he sits back on the couch and looks away. “’S not that simple,” he repeats.

“That’s no reason not to try,” Aziraphale says. “Come now, Crowley. You’ll help, won’t you?”

And there it is: Aziraphale has him now, because Crowley has never been able to say no once Aziraphale works up the courage to ask outright.

He does stammer and sputter as usual first, however. “Help?! How am I supposed to help?!”

“Well, you can drive me, for one thing,” Aziraphale points out. “But there’s also… Whatever you said to her, dear, I’m sure she appreciated it. Her note— Oh, the quiche!” he cries, quite missing how Crowley’s expression crumples to one of relief. “I completely forgot— it’s her sister’s recipe, she said, she sent it over with the boy as thanks— I’d wanted to share it with you, but it’ll be cold by now—”

“That’s easily fixed,” Crowley says, expression carefully arranged into one of amusement.

“It won’t be the same—”

“Angel, we’re talking miracles here. Of course it’ll be the same.”

“Oh.” He had quite forgotten. Somehow. “Well! It’s right over here, dear boy, I’m sure you’ve been wondering—”

Aziraphale heaves himself to his feet and busies himself with fetching the take-out box on a nearby table, carefully set apart from the books. He sits himself down on the sofa next to Crowley, who gently takes it from him and pries it open.

“Shit,” the demon murmurs, and too late Aziraphale remembers that he can’t sense love the way an angel can: it must positively stink of grief to him.

“Language, dear,” he says, in lieu of commenting.

But there must be something of concern in his voice, because Crowley blinks rapidly several times before shaking his head. “Just surprised, is all. You could power Hell with the force of all that wanting.”

Aziraphale allows himself a small smile. “Or Heaven with the happiness.”

Crowley doesn’t answer. In the next moment the quiche is steaming hot, the flaky crust returned to freshness, crisp without being stiff. Aziraphale had expected to find a knife and two forks in the box, and so he does, carefully cutting a piece for each of them.

“Is that spinach?” Crowley asks, face scrunching in distaste.

“You will eat it anyway,” Aziraphale says firmly. “And in any case, I have it on good authority that your opinion on spinach won’t matter, anyway.”

He’s right. The quiche is baked to perfection, the ingredients perfectly balanced so that even Crowley can’t complain about the spinach. There’s something special about eating food made with love, but in Aziraphale’s case it’s generally the love of food or the love of making people happy with food; he’s never eaten something that tasted so much like 6000 years of pain and gratitude, like knowing that _I wish it had been different_ doesn’t change the reality of _but every second was worth it._

They eat the entire thing, and agree afterwards that it is the best quiche they’ve ever had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They'll figure it out, eventually. <3

**Author's Note:**

> When you want to see Aziraphale and Crowley helping out random people and then bailing like they must have done their whole lives, but you suck at original characters so you steal them from other canons and don't name them in the text and hope no one notices
> 
> I'M WORKING ON MY OTHER FIC IT'S JUST SLOW BECAUSE IT MAKES ME SAD
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


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